Chapter 46
Chapter
Forty-Six
HUGH
O ne moment she was awake, and the next second, she’s gone limp in my arms.
“Lauren,” I shake her gently. “Baby, wake up.”
But she doesn’t. Panic claws my chest. Has she just fainted, or has the fire taken her away from me?
My heart hammers as I fumble for my phone. Even my fingers are shaking as I scroll for my helicopter pilot’s number. My voice cracks as I shout at him frantically.
“Where the hell are you? Get here now!”
He’s calm, too calm, saying he’s less than minutes out. He’ll land on the estate’s helipad, but ten minutes feels like forever when she is so still, so fragile in my arms.
I clutch her tighter, her body warm but unresponsive, and I run toward the helipad. The ten minutes do indeed feel like a lifetime.
Finally, the chopper’s roar cuts the air, blades slicing the night. It touches down, kicking up dust and leaves, and the spotlight is blinding. Cradling Lauren, I climb aboard and bark at the pilot.
“Hurry, fly us to St. Mary’s in London. Now!”
The door slams, the chopper lifts, and we’re airborne, the blackened cottage shrinking below, a black wound against the dark.
I hold her close, my arms wrapped around her, her head tucked under my chin, and I check her pulse, my fingers trembling against her wrist, finding it faint but steady.
She’s fine, I tell myself. She just fainted.
The shock and the stress. Not death, but the fear lingers, a vice around my heart, because she’s so pale, so still, and I can’t lose her, not after I waited so long to find her.
Not now. Please. Not yet.
We land at St. Mary’s, the helipad’s lights stark, medics waiting with a gurney, their faces grim under fluorescent vests.
I carry her out, reluctant to let go, but I have to let them take her.
They lay her on the gurney, her blonde hair spilling over the side, her white face smudged with soot and ash.
I follow, a strange figure reeking of smoke and coated with soot.
The hospital’s halls are a blur—sterile white walls, beeping monitors, the squeak of gurney wheels—as they wheel her to the VIP wing, a private room with soft lighting, a wide bed, and a window framing London’s pre-dawn skyline.
I stay by her side, every step, my hand brushing her arm, my eyes locked on her face, searching for a flicker of life, a sign she’s coming back to me.
The doctor, a woman with wary eyes, checks Lauren, her movements brisk but gentle. She lifts her eyelids and shines a light, checks her pulse and her breathing.
“It is most likely shock,” she concludes, “and possible smoke inhalation.”
They pierce her arm with the needle and hook her to an IV.
A clear fluid drip to stabilize my baby and bring back her strength.
A young nurse with a kind smile comes in and checks Lauren’s throat with a scope.
Her gloved hands are careful. She tells me she is looking for soot, burns, or signs that the fire’s left its mark inside her.
I watch, my chest tight, my hands clenched, because every second feels like a verdict. I’m waiting to know that she’s truly okay. The nurse nods, satisfied, saying her throat’s clear, no serious damage, and I exhale the shaky breath I didn’t know I was holding.
She turns to me, her eyes narrowing at my soot-streaked face and my rasping breaths. “Sir, we need to check you too,” she says in a firm voice. “Smoke inhalation can be deadly if untreated, and it is incredibly easy to miss.”
I shake my head, my voice rough. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I stay rooted by Lauren’s bed, my hand brushing her hair from her face, the soft strands gritty with ash.
I’m close to tears, my eyes are actually stinging with them, and it’s not from the smoke but from the fear I might’ve lost her tonight.
I fight to hold them back, because the nurse is watching, because I need to be strong for her.
The nurse steps closer, her voice urgent, “Sir, you were in that fire too.
There could be soot in your lungs, carbon monoxide.
It can and will kill you silently, and it only needs a few hours.
So please let us check you and your oxygen levels.
Your throat as well, right now. There's no point risking your life. I know you're worried about her, but she’s going to be fine. I promise.”
I freeze, my hand still on Lauren’s cheek, her skin warm under my fingers, and the nurse’s words sink in. I could die and leave her alone. Her cottage is gone, and I have not made any provisions to take care of her financially. The thought twists my gut, and I nod reluctantly.
My voice is barely a whisper. “Fine, but make it quick.”
I lean down and kiss Lauren’s forehead, my lips lingering, her scent faint under the smoke.
Then I follow the nurse to a side room, every step pulling me further away from my Lauren, every second agonizing.
They check me fast. A scope down my throat, the cold metal bitter against my tongue, a blood test pricking my arm.
My lungs are irritated, they say, but clear, no lethal damage, just rest and water needed, and I’m back to her room in minutes, my eyes scanning her face for any change.
She’s still out, her chest rising and falling, the IV dripping steadily, and I sink onto the stool by her bed, my body heavy and exhausted, my skin itching, and my clothes stiff with soot.
The doctor’s words echo in my head. She’s fine.
Just fainted from shock and stress. The IV will help.
But I feel it. Something I never feel. Sorrow.
Because her cottage, her fresh start, is gone, burned to nothing, and she will be sad.
And for the first time in my life, I’m scared, filled with a bone-deep fear that I’m finally vulnerable.
I could’ve lost her, and I still might, and I don’t know how to process it, how to hold this love, this terror, in my chest.
I take her hand, her fingers limp but warm, and brush my thumb over her knuckles, my eyes tracing her face, her closed lids.
There’s nowhere else I’d be, nowhere in the world.
I lean forward and lay my blackened head on the bed, the sheet cool against my cheek, her hand still in mine.
Exhaustion pulls at me, my eyes heavy, my body aching, and I drift, falling asleep to the soft beep of the monitor, the faint hum of the hospital, her presence the only anchor in the dark.
God knows how long later, but a shift, a slight movement, jolts me awake. My head snaps up, my heart leaping, alarm and hope colliding.
Lauren’s eyes flutter open, blue and dazed, locking on mine, and I see that she’s okay. She’s here, she’s alive.
“Hugh,” she whispers, her voice raw from smoke.
Overwhelming relief floods me, and I can’t help myself. I lean over and kiss her, my lips soft against hers, a tear slipping from my eye, falling to her cheek, a warm streak that I wipe away quickly.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice cracking, “I’m so sorry, Lauren.”
It’s not my fault, I know, but for some strange reason I feel responsible for her pain, her loss.
She’s barely been able to enjoy her cottage, her new life, and now it’s ash, and I’ll figure out why, I’ll find answers, and I will help her rebuild it all.
It’ll cost nothing and I need to assure her of this.
Her voice comes, tiny, hoarse, “What happened?”
The confusion in her tone, the fragility. My head still throbs, a dull ache from the smoke and the heat, but I squeeze her hand, my eyes never leaving hers, determined to hold her through this and be whatever she needs me to be.